The One Who Loved Ashley
by grimdreamer
Summary: Shuusei has always been blamed for killing the Opast Ashley and somebody wants him to suffer. Meanwhile, unexplained 'suicides' are affecting the city of Tokyo and a new student has transferred to Izumimari Gakuen...
1. First Glimpse

**AUTHOR'S NOTE****:** I was working on this last year and feel this chapter is finally good enough to publish. It centres mainly on Shuusei's relationship with Hotsuma and how it's affected by a new threat. The story is written as if you are watching an episode from the series. For Isuzu fans out there, sorry if you don't like the way he's represented. I just wanted to give him a bit of an edge that the series unfortunately doesn't.

Any thoughts, please let me know. I suffer often from Writer's Block so will try my best to update.

This is dedicated to **Stargate27** / **thelastunicorn**.

* * *

><p><strong>+ <span>The One Who Loved Ashle<span>y +**

**First Glimpse**

Indicating where Shuusei should stand, Isuzu observes the Zweilt's movements with clinical interest and focuses on the clipboard held firmly in front of him. The Eyes of God can see everything, even into the minds of people like doctors, so Isuzu keeps his disapproval a secret – including that hectic urge to tease every patient – and merely points to a chair not far from his desk. Reluctantly, the boy sits and waits for Isuzu to finish writing his notes. Without looking, the doctor can sense that his patient is anxious, unwilling to discuss what was read on the scales. He smiles and asks, 'No change, then?' ignoring, for the moment, any physical symptoms.

He refers solely to the Zweilt's psychological health, concerned with identifying the cause of his persistent thinness. To be a Zweilt, you have to meet certain requirements, like having a natural talent and also possessing the strongest of wills. While Isuzu may not be involved in selecting these future candidates, it is plain to him that this one must be flawed, since none should ever place self-destruction over duty.

He studies the angles of Shuusei's whittled frame and wonders how to broach such an awkward diagnosis. In previous lives, the Eyes of God had always struggled with eating disorders, vomiting from the stress of uncensored visions or denying food as a desperate form of control. Isuzu rubs at his jaw, scratching at the stubble, and twirls a ballpoint pen fluidly through his fingers. This is all in the archives at the main Giou residence, and the evidence is before him in plain flesh and bone, so why is it hard for Isuzu to say something?

As if to save Isuzu the hassle, Shuusei removes from his blazer a teal-coloured cell-phone and flips it open with a business-like air. A message from Takashiro, Isuzu assumes; there is always some query from the local police.

'Understood,' Shuusei eventually nods, ending the conversation. He replaces the cell-phone in the breast of his blazer and smiles a little in the doctor's direction. 'I have to be going now. Shall we talk about this later?'

Isuzu stands; there might not be a "later" and the both of them know this. 'Usui-kun, we're worried. Can't you see what you're doing here?'

Shuusei still smiles, though it flickers for a moment as he thinks of an answer. 'I'm fine, Dr. Isuzu,' he decides. 'Thank you, again, for seeing me.'

* * *

><p>'Explain,' demands Hotsuma, as soon as Shuusei exits the office. He is leaning against the wall with two satchels at his feet, posture suggesting a bitter kind of patience. 'Well?' he continues, holding out the satchel belonging to Shuusei and trying to discern his partner's expression. 'You're always with that doctor when there's nothing even wrong with you. Damn it, are you sick? Or is it something that I've done?'<p>

Dismissing the palm resting lightly on his forehead, Shuusei replies, 'You never pay attention,' and strides down the hallway to the mahogany staircase, which he gracefully descends two steps at a time. Only when Shuusei is clear of Twilight Mansion does he glance at the Voice of God trailing behind him. 'Don't be such a mother-hen,' he chides. 'Isuzu just wanted to talk.'

'Is it anything serious?'

'No.'

'Then why won't you tell me?' Hotsuma glares.

They walk to school in silence, neither willing to argue, and join the stream of students along the main path.

For the second year running, the sakura blossoms are out early: a sign that the city will have a sweltering summer. As they near the school grounds, petals whirl across the streets, littering the roads with endless shores of pink and frosting the hair of rushing commuters.

Shuusei used to like this time of the year. He used to view the brevity of life as a beautiful thing, seeing the petals in the form of human lives as they danced through the air to their final place of rest. But the sight of all these petals now makes him unbearably sad. They force him think of the times that he nearly lost Hotsuma.

'You're having an affair with Isuzu, aren't you?'

Shuusei gives the Zweilt a quick thump. 'Don't be ridiculous,' he says.

They pause at the gate, staring towards the building where they spend their days apart. Crowning the school is a marble clock, gleaming in the sky like a vigilant moon: its face reads quarter-past seven.

'Shit, that's early!' cries Hotsuma, in reference to the time reflected on his watch. He jumps as Shuusei's hand glides up and settles on his hair, gentle as a feather. Hotsuma reddens, eyes darting, checking to see if someone has noticed. 'Shuusei, what are you–'

'Hopeless,' murmurs Shuusei, a petal between his fingertips; it flutters to the ground and joins the others scattered around them.

'H-hey! Where are you going?'

'To meet a new student. I'm giving him a tour.'

'Then what about me, you bastard! What am I supposed to do? It's not even eight!'

'You're the one who followed me. _You_ figure it out.'

Shuusei strolls away to the sound of Hotsuma swearing. _Hopeless_, he thinks, with a melancholy smirk. _Truly hopeless._

He enters the locker hall to change his shoes then heads for the principal's office. The school is calm, old in its stillness, and nothing like the atmosphere of Twilight Mansion. Within its walls is the only place where Shuusei feels distant from just about anyone who has yet to pass a lifetime. It has always been this way, since Takashiro cast the spell.

'Usui-kun, good morning! I was hoping to find you.'

Faintly, Shuusei smiles at the middle-aged man approaching him on the corridor and provides a shallow bow in response to the greeting. 'Sir, how are you? Is the new student here yet?'

'Yes,' the principal beams, swelling with a pride that Shuusei finds unusual. 'What a shame he had to transfer, but another school's loss is another one's gain.'

They proceed to an office where the door is already open. The principal enters first, followed by Shuusei, whose gaze disregards the opulent settings in favour of the boy standing next to the window.

'Yamada-kun,' says the principal, gesturing to Shuusei, 'your new classmate is here to show you around.'

The boy slowly turns from his view of the courtyard. His face is delicate, like a girl's, and framed by ebony hair too masculine for his features. Instead of smiling, he considers Shuusei with strangely guarded eyes.

'Yamada Toru,' he bows, 'pleased to make your acquaintance.'

* * *

><p>Takashiro stares at the inspector sitting nervously opposite. 'What leads you to conclude this case is paranormal? Apart from suicide and the absence of notes, these victims seem to me like the type to end their lives.'<p>

'So it may seem,' responds the inspector, reaching timidly across the paper-strewn table to point out the entries in each victim's journal. 'But their writing starts to sound more and more positive. These people… they were actually getting better, so why would they want to kill themselves? Why would they even go that far?'

Takashiro drops his stare and lingers on the photo of a leather-bound memoir, a jotter plastered with stickers, a diary concealed as a textbook. 'Inspector,' he says, 'did the victims keep a journal online?'

'No, the journals were written by hand. None of the victims had a journal on the internet.'

'In this day and age, would that strike you as eccentric?'

The inspector shrugs. 'People write things down; not everyone needs a computer.'

'I suppose not.'

'Do you think you could you help us? We don't know what else to do. Our investigation would have finished by now if they weren't all dying at seven…'

'How do you know that?'

'Know what?'

'That they died at seven precisely.'

The inspector spreads another set of photos. Oily rail tracks, numbered body parts – none of them grab the interest of Takashiro until the toneless images captured by security: as the victims are struck, every clock on the platform displays an identical time.

'Seven,' Takashiro mutters.

'Exactly,' agrees the inspector. 'There are stations in Tokyo district known as suicide hotspots. Providing there's nothing suspicious, we close the case, issue the bill, and it's done. But this… we really don't know what to make of this. People jumping in front of trains the same time as somebody else, no problem, it happens, but when there's so many all over the city, like some kind of trend, then it's… I don't know.'

Takashiro returns the photos, fingers weaving, interlocking, as he rests them on the table. He can tell how much this means to the man. 'Show us the journals and our specialist will see them. We'll do everything we can to assist.'


	2. Second Glimpse

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** First of all, I'm incredibly sorry for not publishing this chapter sooner; I know it has been almost a year. I work full-time, try to learn German, and keep devouring e-books - such is life!

For me, writing for an OC in this fandom is really hard, especially when you want their presence to make an impact. Hopefully, I haven't failed in that respect and you will continue to like the story. Also, if the writing style is different, this may be down to reading _The First Law_ trilogy by Joe Abercrombie, whose talent for writing action has helped me a lot with the opening scene.

Thanks for any thoughts you may wish to share.

* * *

><p><strong>+ <span>The One Who Loved Ashley<span> +**

**Second Glimpse**

_Raising a tremulous hand, the dying Zweilt grips the hilt of his sword, an effort that makes him violently sick, splashing the front of his armour with a mixture of vomit and blood. Clever how the Opast had used his weapon against him - his very own blade, the blade he trusted most. It had pierced him through the chest, just below his heart, and with each laborious breath he could feel it pushing further, coldly into the space it had dug in his body. Feverish, weak, he stares at the Opast waiting for him in the distance, wreathed in tendrils of mist, emitting a dangerous glow. _

This is it,_ he thinks grimly, licking at blood congealed around his mouth. _My last chance before the end of all lifetimes...

_'Hikaru!' a voice interrupts, desperate and distraught. _

_The Zweilt flinches at the sound of his name, hilt straining harder against broken ribs. _Who is that yelling so carelessly near me?_ He spits out new blood and rolls his head left: a figure racing towards the motionless Opast, sword stretched out, flames surging brightly along its brutal edge. _

_'No!' gasps Hikaru, as his partner leaps up; before the blade can fall, the Opast flickers aside, catches the Zweilt by his ankle, and whips him into the ground. Dust, for an instant, blocks Hikaru's view, then Shun re-appears, dancing on his feet, sword erupting fire as he strikes and counters the Opast. _

He can't win alone; I won't let him die.

_Gritting teeth, Hikaru's lips move with unspoken words, causing orbs to rise from the landscape nearby, until, with every blow slipping beneath his partner's guard, there are shells of pale blue deflecting the onslaught. _

_Shun merely grins and rapidly spins on his heels, delivering a whirl of blazing hacks and cuts. The Opast staggers, reeling back, a flash of dark petals flying into the air, but the shells are fading faster than the target will perish - faster than their master can summon the spell._

_'Don't you fucking give up!' commands Shun, in that irrefutable tone._

_Hikaru shifts the hand not clutching his sword, shaky palm open, upturned to the sky. An incantation is whispered, stilling the gathering orbs, suspending them high above the two fighters. As he flips and lowers his palm, the Opast sinks, slamming into dirt, a ring of dust spreading wide across the battlefield. _

_'Now,' groans Hikaru, straining to hold their opponent; without hesitation, wings of hot light slash swiftly into the Opast, tearing its dwindling form into hundreds and thousands of petals. Relieved, Hikaru surrenders, crumpling to his knees, heedless of the blade slicing deeper into his lungs. _

_In the settling haze, Shun emerges unharmed, glowers for a moment at the craters filling with blood, then gruffly kneels beside his injured partner. _

_'Don't die on me, bastard.' _

_Hikaru glares, too tired for anger. 'Where's Yuki?' he asks, conscious of the numbness creeping into his limbs. 'And the others... Where are... the others?' A shadow slips over his face, fingers quietly stroking the hair from his eyes._

_'Never mind the others,' a gentle voice tells him. 'I'll be missing you, Hika, for the rest of my life...'_

* * *

><p>Slow as motes drifting through shimmering air, he returns to the present, perceiving once again the features of a classroom, half cast in shadow as the sun travels west. Surrounding him are students distracted from the lesson, staring at the desk where he seems to calmly sit, all transfixed by blood seeping softly from his nose. Gradually, he senses this trickle as well, and shielding his mouth, slowly stands up, careful not to spill any blood on his clothes.<p>

'Sir,' he says to the teacher. 'May I please be excused?'

The teacher nods, pen tapping loudly in the silence of the classroom, too concerned with a sentence being written on the whiteboard.

The boy hurries out, ignoring his peers, and locks himself in a toilet far from significant whispers. Seconds later, he retches, spitting blood and bile, then cleans his face in the sink until its water runs clear.

Like the Zweilt in his vision, he feels sick, intensely afraid, anxious not to die before his resurrection. He urges the illness to pass, the fear to subside, grasping his shirt where the sword had pierced through.

_The dying Zweilt, Hikaru, had once been me. And that other Zweilt, Shun, had once been my partner. _

'Shuusei, may I come in?'

Immediately, his thoughts and feelings shut down.

'Tsukumo,' he answers the silver-haired boy, straightening his shirt in front of the mirror.

'Takashiro just called. We both have to go.'

'Could you give me a minute?'

'Listen, do you...'

'Hmm?'

'I don't mean to pry, but... are you okay? You look kind of-'

'What.'

The Zweilt drops his gaze and rubs the back of his neck. 'Nothing,' he eventually murmurs. 'See you outside.'

* * *

><p>Toru studies the courtyard from his seat by the window: below him the students are small, crawling like insects, milling about in their self-centred world. Had they offered, he could have been with them, adding to the echoes of faint, sincere laughter or strolling through the gates with friends going home. Had they asked, he could have been like them, social and oblivious, blind to the loner observing with resentment, clenching his fist as they leave, one by one. But nobody will ask him to join them at this school.<p>

Not since they questioned the colour of his eyes.

Glaring at the classroom now vacant around him, Toru wonders why it should matter, something like the colour or shade of an iris. Generations of Yamadas had always developed this trait, but in this generation, where genes are just random, capricious in the extreme, they had served to undermine what could have been a perfect, peaceful existence, emerging for no reason than to cruelly cast him out.

He bangs his fist on the windowsill.

_I'm Japanese by birth. Why can't they accept that? Everywhere I go, my heritage has cursed me!_

Except this guy had been different in a way that made Toru hope; made him want to believe that people had changed. In the principal's office, he had been set to dismiss this Usui Shuusei, knowing all too well what would happen to their "friendship". Unless you knew each other from somewhere else before, you would most likely part in a matter of days. However, with Usui's smile and delicate manner, it felt like the world had granted a wish, giving Toru the courage to face a classroom of students.

'My name is Yamada Toru. Please take care of my future.'

'Wow, is this your friend?'

'Look at those eyes...'

'If Usui likes him, I'm sure we'll get along!'

'Hey, does he speak Japanese? My English isn't great!'

Toru had side-glanced Usui beside him, dreading a glimpse of vanity, self-interest, spite or disgust - any sort of emotion about to betray him - but all he witnessed was a smile of the purest bafflement, an emotion which caused their classmates to giggle unrestrained, and at that precise moment, Toru simply knew he could never leave this person; that they had to be friends, no matter what.

As if reinforcing the point, students continued to stare as Toru adopted the desk next to where Usui sat, chin propped up with a nonchalant hand, sun glinting gently in the strands of his hair. At lunch, they flocked towards Toru and fought for his attention, and though he sensed that their interest was mainly fuelled by Usui sitting nearby, he did not care in the least and welcomed conversation regarding his background, cautious not to share the truth behind his transfer. Then Usui had a nosebleed towards the afternoon, graceful, even in illness, as he weakly rose to his feet. Without him, the classroom appeared to grow colder, like it relied on his company to warm and shape their lives.

_And so it begins,_ Toru observes, bitterly disappointed, gradually abandoned by his classmates now Usui had gone. _If I fail to stay with this person, then the school will hound and bully me until I transfer again. I've learned this from the past. I have no other choice. This person is a shield. That's all this person is._

He picks up his bag and prepares to go home, discerning in that instant two students still in the courtyard, approaching a car positioned by the gates. Self-consciously he ducks, hiding behind the curtain, and peeks through its fabric to check where they are; the taller one is Usui, the short one a stranger, depressed and too mature for his physical years. When they both reach the car, Usui climbs in, blocking the short one's attempt to help him inside, and leans his head on the seat, wearily surveying the now empty school. The short one lingers, uncertain, upset, then climbs into the car from the opposite side.

_Where is Usui off to with a first-year like that?_ _And what is he actually looking at...?_

Tracing the line of his classmate's gaze, Toru retreats, thinking it might have been him, then realises Usui is looking somewhere else: at a first-year in the courtyard, hair wild and blond, scowling at the car as it quickly drives away.

* * *

><p>They wait for the car to reach the inner city, silent as it homes on a slab of towering concrete, panes of glass golden in the afternoon light: Tokyo District Headquarters for the Metropolitan Police, centre for all crimes no mortal can decipher. As the vehicle pulls up, an officer stirs from an alcove near the entrance, dressed in a suit of sharp linen grey, scarlet tie stressed by the black of his shirt.<p>

'Thank you for coming,' the officer greets them. Through a revolving glass door, he takes the Zweilts into a marble reception, where passes are issued to his unexplained guests, then escorts them to a level unmarked beneath the penthouse, eyes intent on the numbers above their polished surroundings. As the lift slides open, revealing a hallway, he informs his guests, 'The inspector is there,' and indicates a door located on the left. 'Please go straight in. I'll collect you both later.'

They bow as the officer leaves and knock at the door without a title or nameplate.

'So,' they hear someone comment, as soon as they respectfully enter, 'these are your specialists, the ones who can help us?'

Silhouettes twist from a table strewn with photos, dossiers, and plastic evidence bags. The first silhouette is a man in middle years with a thin, peppery buzz cut and a plain steel suit. His forehead, deep with worry, glistens with sweat in spite of the air-con and makes his younger companion seem unusually composed, a man in his twenties, stiffly poised in his seat.

Furthest from the door sits Giou Takashiro, face veiled in shadow by the angle of the sun. 'Yes,' he says kindly, in response to the older man's question. 'Kiriyama, this is Usui, and this is Murasame. Usui, Murasame, his assistant Takahashi.'

The Zweilts exchange bows with the slightly frowning men and slip into chairs beside Takashiro.

'Now,' the inspector resumes, 'what can your specialists do?'

'Murasame,' prompts Takashiro, 'show us your skill.'

From the assistant, the silver-haired Zweilt receives an evidence bag wrapped with black tape and weighs the mysterious package in querying hands, pinching its contents, smoothing the plastic, then solemnly answers, 'This journal belonged to a girl. Last time she wrote was just before dinner. I think she seemed very happy.'

'And him?' nods Kiriyama at Usui, who accepts the same item from his comrade, holds it up like a card too complex to read, then offers it back to a puzzled Takahashi.

'May I see the rest?' the Zweilt inquires, without passing judgment.

Kiriyama consents and the other evidence bags are subjected to a similar process.

After some minutes, Usui concludes, 'Nothing,' sipping water from a glass poured by Murasame and resting his eyes on Kiriyama directly. 'The culprits are the victims. They did this to themselves.'

Takashiro smiles at the men with elegant interest. 'Will that suffice, inspector?'

'Yes,' Kiriyama agrees, somewhat reluctantly, sweating even more in the cooling draught of the air-con, 'but none of this is new. Your insight is truly respected, sir, believe me, it is, but why are these victims dying at seven all the time? It doesn't make much sense to people like us...'

'On every journal exists a spiritual residue, and having studied these journals myself, I can readily confirm that a Duras is involved, though we cannot know for certain exactly who it is.'

'If you need more time, then-'

'More victims, inspector, is really what we need.'

'What?' Kiriyama stares. 'You want more people to die?'

'Seven,' Takashiro continues, ignoring the man's outburst, 'is a number for the physical world, and the Duras we are dealing with cannot enter this world unless they have a medium, such as human beings. Usually these Duras will try to trick their victims or brand them with a blood seal, thus creating pathways between the spiritual world and the physical world.

'In this instance, where suicide is committed at seven, it is clear that a Duras is attempting to enter the physical world, but cannot do so until it gains enough power. So far, we have twelve victims in Tokyo alone. If this city proves to be the location where a Duras wishes to enter, then it is only a matter of time before it claims additional victims.'

'But letting people die for this isn't right...' Takahashi mumbles, not looking at the Zweilts or their leader across the table.

Takashiro hardens at the assistant's cowardly words. 'In mathematics,' he affirms, 'the ultimate expression of a number is the multiplication of that number by itself. Based on the time of death and the number of deaths, it may be safe to assume that forty-nine, seven times seven, would be the perfect outcome required for this Duras to fully emerge.'

Writing the figures on a blank sheet of paper, Kiriyama mutters, 'If we're working on that assumption, then we only have thirty-seven suicides left...'

Takahashi turns to his colleague. 'Inspector, you can't be seriously thinking-'

'Of course not!' snaps Kiriyama. 'Do you think I want that to happen? I'm just considering facts! Sir,' he says to Takashiro, in a much calmer tone, 'is there any way to stop this thing from taking more victims? Can't we stop them now, before the forty-ninth?'

'I cannot say,' replies Takashiro, with genuine honesty. 'We have no means of knowing which Duras is responsible. Until we do, I would suggest reconvening tomorrow. We need to examine the evidence.'

* * *

><p>'You're home!' exclaims a girl dashing gracefully from the staircase. As she comes to a halt in the foyer, strands of strawberry-blonde splash against her brother's arms in a tender, beautiful wave, clinging to his frame as if she might drown. At this sign of affection, Tsukumo returns her embrace, and briefly, they resemble two dancers shutting out the world, swaying in time to the secret pulse of their hearts.<p>

'Shuusei,' Touko belatedly calls, raising her head to the staircase where a figure is wearily moving.

He meets her anxious gaze with a faint, emotionless smile, then quietly proceeds to the bathing hall by himself, suffering under the impression that perhaps it would have been nice, if someone had waited.

'Welcome back, Shuusei.'

His eyes flash open, fleetingly hopeful, only to land on Yuki, who had just stepped aside to let him stroll past in the corridor. 'Good evening,' Shuusei responds, in a strained sort of tone. 'It's getting quite late. Shouldn't you be resting?'

'To be honest, I was waiting for you,' God's Light admits shyly, seemingly oblivious to the Zweilt's growing pain. 'Do you mind me coming with you? I need to bathe as well.'

_No,_ Shuusei retorts, _no, you cannot,_ but his face considers the question, forcing down the urge to physically retreat from the yearning and the guiltiness afflicting his conscience.

He is always afraid of this moment: being alone with Yuki.

'Of course,' he eventually nods, confident again. He strides ahead on the corridor, causing restless shadows to leap from candle-lit sconces.

Behind him, Yuki uncomfortably follows, discouraged by Shuusei's behaviour, and reaching the communal showers, considerately stays at the opposite end of the changing room to give his companion some privacy. Instead of clearing the tension which had sprung up during their walk, his gesture unwittingly stabs at Shuusei's inner conflict, shaking his fingers so badly that he cannot unbutton his shirt.

Unknown to his partner Hotsuma, the Eyes of God had begun to let Yuki in, slowly reacting to the boy's polite banter, if only to gain a little release. After surviving that battle with Ashley, after trying to end his own life, the pressure to continue neglecting the boy could scarcely go on - God's Light had bravely saved Shuusei, thus he must demonstrate loyalty, gratitude; yet this ancient quarrel between his partner and Yuki is gradually wearing him down, tearing apart his desire to love and support them.

'Shuusei, are you all right?' Yuki inquires from his side of the bathing hall.

'Yes, I'm all right.'

The boy approaches, concerned with the downcast expression. 'Do you want to talk?'

The Zweilt blinks and takes Yuki's hand, pressing its palm to the collar of his shirt. When he speaks, his voice sounds strangely distant; strangled, somehow.

'Is there really no way... to get rid... of these scars?'

'You told me once that there wasn't,' Yuki gently reminds him.

'But if there was a way...'

Smiling sadly, Yuki unfastens the shirt which Shuusei had struggled with. As he solemnly views the disfigurements, his longing to heal and forever erase their stain on the past is easily felt.

For Shuusei, this is enough; enough to salve his despair and stifle the anguish of choosing between two fidelities. Pressing his forehead to the back of Yuki's hands, he whispers a mantra that he has carried for a while.

_I will talk to my partner Hotsuma. I will finally tell him._


End file.
